Page 44 of Return to the Waratah Inn

“Yes, Mrs Thompson,” they both intoned in unison.

“You know you should be grateful for the roof over your head. Not many would give two fallen women like yourselves a second chance, but here we are, doing our bit. You must pay for your trespasses on society by serving and suffering, and perhaps then you will make amends for the wrong you’ve done. But until then, I don’t want to see you slacking for a moment. There’s plenty of work to be done and not enough hands to do it.”

It was at times like this, Mrs Thompson reminded Mima of her own mother. There’s work to be done. Get to it, Mima. Stop slacking. You gab too much for your own good. One of these days you’re gonna find yourself in trouble. Maybe she wouldn’t have ended up in this position if only her parents had shown a little warmth, or compassion.

When she phoned to tell them about the baby, her mother had gone quiet and her father had huffed and puffed, then shouted down the telephone line that he’d told her all along her actions would have consequences. She pictured his face turning red and steam rising from his ears with every word. At least Mother had agreed to send her some money, a small allowance for treats, stamps so that she could write, and a train fare for the trip home. Although she’d assured Mima that she couldn’t stay in Bathurst long, since people would talk. And there was nothing her parents cared about more than their reputation.

Mrs Thompson droned on about working hard and making life-altering choices, her preferred lecture topics, then paused for a response.

“Yes, Mrs Thompson,” Mima replied, barely registering what the woman had said.

Mrs Thompson turned to leave, and Mima spoke up, her gaze travelling to land on the woman’s face for the first time. “I have a cheque to cash from my parents. Can I go to the bank when I’m finished here?”

“I suppose that would be fine. Stop in at the office the moment you’re back, please.”

When she left, Mima and Fran exchanged a look. Fran picked up her scrubbing brush. “Did you hear her coming?”

“Not a footstep.” Mima shook her head. “I’m grateful she seemed to be in a good mood, though. And now I can finally go and cash that cheque.”

“I can’t believe your parents sent you money. I wish someone would send me something.”

Mima grimaced. “They’ve basically disowned me, but Mother somehow managed to scrape together cash to send. I’d bet the farm that Daddy doesn’t know about it. Still, I hope they’ll let me come and stay with them. Heck, I’d give anything for a hug and them to tell me it’s going to be okay. But beggars can’t be choosers.”

“Everything is gonna be okay,” Fran said, shooting her a grin.

“You don’t know that.” Mima’s voice cracked.

“It has to be okay. Something’s gotta work out.”

“How can you be so positive?” Mima blinked at her friend, reaching out a hand to rest on her arm as she scrubbed. “You endure it all without complaining.”

Fran stopped scrubbing. “I have to be positive. I’d give up otherwise.”

She had a point. Mima had felt like giving up so many times over the past months, but Fran’s positivity had helped her through it. They’d become fast friends, and now Mima wasn’t sure what she’d do without Fran by her side. The other women there were kind as well, but they were each caught up in the pain of their own situation and didn’t have much to give. The fact that Mima and Fran shared a room meant they’d lain in bed many a night and swapped stories about their lives, their pasts, the futures they hoped for and the lives they dreamed of having someday. It’d connected them on a level Mima had forgotten was possible.

“I’m losing feeling in my legs,” Mima said suddenly. “I don’t know if I can stand.”

Fran hoisted herself up onto her feet, swaying slightly, then reached out two hands to pull Mima up as well. They both stood there a few moments as the blood rushed back into their legs and feet and the world stilled.

“I’m so grateful for you,” Mima said with tears in her eyes. “I couldn’t do any of this without you. You know that, right?”

Fran’s eyes glistened. “You’re a good egg, Mima. And we’re in this together, you and me.”

They held hands and squeezed tight, beaming at one another through their tears.

“Together,” Mima replied with a brisk nod, knowing what she had to do and wishing she could take Fran with her.

Her plan was simple, and maybe that was the beauty of it. Or perhaps it would get her in even deeper trouble. Regardless, she wouldn’t back down now. She would cash the cheque from her mother at the bank, then take the money and run. Well, “waddle” was probably a more appropriate description of what she’d do, but it felt good to be dramatic.

She could use the money to catch a train to Bathurst, and she was fairly certain that when she got there, she could convince her father to let her stay long term. At the very least, they might drive her to a local unmarried mothers’ home, one that didn’t force the single women to do hard labour at seven months pregnant. And one that was close enough for her parents to visit occasionally.

Her deep hope was that they’d take her in and care for her themselves. They had plenty of money. Surely they’d want to care for their only daughter. Even if they’d lost all respect for her choices. She’d simply have to give up the freedom she’d grown to love and follow her parents rules. The life she’d lived was over.

The bank was busy for a Tuesday. Mima had to stand in line for ten minutes waiting to take her turn with the teller. But finally, she had the money in her hand and pushed it carefully into her purse. She stood outside the bank, with her purse swinging on one arm, wishing she’d been able to pack a bag to bring with her, but it would’ve tipped off the prison wardens, Mrs Thompson’s minions who watched every movement in and out of the hospital entrance on her behalf. She couldn’t afford to raise suspicions, so she had to cope with the small purse and whatever she could manage to stuff into it. She’d buy more clothes when she reached Bathurst. It wasn’t as though she fit into most of the ones in her suitcase now, anyway. She’d had to make do with donated items in the thrift shop down the road from the hospital ever since her stomach had outgrown her wardrobe.

With the money safely stowed away, she stepped up to the curb. A horse pulling a bread cart trundled by on the shoulder of the road. The driver spat a stream of tobacco juice from the corner of his mouth, and it landed in the dust beside her feet. Mima took a step back as the old man dipped his hat.

A bus rumbled by, then Mima crossed the road, ducking between cyclists and pedestrians. It was only a fifteen-minute walk to the train station. She heard the red rattlers in the distance, the new electric trains that had replaced the old steam engines in the Sydney suburbs.